Ghost of War
by silverphantom
Summary: CH.3 UP... Ace Combat 5 Timeline, original characters and subplots, more styled towards realism...Switch and the 188th TFSN of the Vulture Carrier Air Wing are swallowed into the YukeOsea War.... I'mmm back
1. Unknown Bandit

First things first… other than an all too short "career" in _StarCraft_ and _Star Wars_ fanfiction writing ("Hitting the Beaches" and "Mysteries of the Sith" posted in their respective categories, incomplete and regrettably permanently incomplete) this is my third attempt ever at writing a fanfiction piece. I love Ace Combat, hell I bought a PS2 strictly for when Ace Combat Zero came out… however I did not like the story nearly as much as AC5 (which I had played at a friend's house) so I went out a few days ago, bought AC5 for $20, and have happily played through a few levels since…my love for real-life flying, expensive toy-… er… I mean jets, and fantasizing of modern fighters mixing it up in the close, knife-range styled dogfights of a bygone era has urged me to put my…well, what I call talents (you may not agree, that's fine) to use…

I'm breaking a few rules of writing with this fan fic…first of which, I don't know where this is going to go or lead to, I haven't planned it out, or feel the desire too… and second of all, despite this being a fan fic I **will not** be involving Blaze, Nagase, Chopper, Snow, or anyone else prominent in the game as my main characters… heavily supporting role? Sure, of course, yes, but not as main. Too many difficulties with those kinds of stories, too many limitations, too many people crying because their views of Blaze or Grimm doesn't fit mine. And thirdly, despite what Namco would have you believe, a F/A-18 (I still like to call them CF-188's, hint hint, trivia time, which nationality am I?) can not carry a load-out of 60+ missiles (I will occasionally leave reality and perhaps stretch the number of missiles from say 4 to 8 in order to make longer, more interesting battles), and nor, unfortunately for Air Force's around the world, can one missile "do-it-all" and attack both ground and airborne targets…

Right now, if you've read this far, you're probably asking, well does this story have _anything_ to do with AC5?  
Yes.  
I will be keeping the overall theme/plot, the geographic world, and the game's characters will play heavily supporting roles… but by now this "brief" introduction has turned into multiple paragraphs, so on with the story.

Please, enjoy.

I do not own Ace Combat 5 nor any of their trademarked characters or plots.

I also (regrettably) do not own any of the mentioned aircraft or munitions used in this story.

This story is written strictly for entertainment purposes and is not to be edited or redistributed without my expressed permission.

(Oh BTW, There is no reference to AC5 characters in this first chapter. This is so that I can build my sub-plot and introduce a few of my characters. Don't worry I promise I will relate closer to AC5 in Chapter 2 and on.)

the following fanfic contains violence and coarse language, reader discretion is advised

* * *

**Ghosts of War**

CHAPTER 1: _**"Unknown Bandit"**_

_-off the Osean coastline, North Sea-_

"Lynx Flight, bogey-dope." God announced.

God today however, was personified by a young voice over a hundred miles away through the dark, gray, overcast sky.

"Overlord, Lynx Lead, go ahead." An older voice called back with an audible humming in the background.

"Intermittent contact, type unknown, angels six-zero. Estimate eight-zero miles. Estimate speed six-zero-zero plus knots. Turn to heading two-five-six for intercept." The younger voice spoke again, energetic and dragging out the numbers. Without hesitation the third party, another young male sealed up in three layers of olive drab twisted his right wrist, and the dark blue world turned beneath him. Fifty feet away, Lynx One, or rather Lynx One's F-18A also dipped its right wing as the two Osean navy fighters assumed their new course through the cold, snowy skies.

"All right Two, let's get these wasps a'humming. Just make sure you flip the right one this time, okay rookie?" The older voice jabbed as both fighters leveled their wings on their new course. With a quick glance to his right, "rookie", just recently christened as 'Switch', could see two beady eyes staring back at him, sarcastic smile all but visible underneath the slate gray oxygen mask. The black, italicized writing right underneath the pilot's cockpit read _Major T. "Top Hat" Hiccoks_, _Commanding Officer, 188th TFS(N)_, clearly visible through the fifty feet of snow filled air, of course, not that the snowflakes looked anything other than thin white lines while moving at over five hundred knots.

Focusing back into his cockpit, Lynx Two took his left hand off the throttle and turned his attack radar into standby before raising the black and yellow striped cover over the small "master arm" switch. He paused just long enough to stare at the canary-yellow post-it note which exclaimed "RIGHT HERE!" in thick black felt, escorted by only about half a dozen penciled-in arrows. Switch had the left his squadron-mates idea of humour up when he strapped into his Hornet an hour earlier, but had seen fit to take down the red post-it note right beside the first, which had redundantly proclaimed "NO! NOT HERE!"

The painful jab from his superior made him wished he had removed both.

"Lynx, steer correction two-eight-zero. Contact track unchanged, still intermittent, two-zero miles to intercept." God spoke again.

"Roger that, anything lit up out there?" Lynx One queried as the two fighters once again settled in on a new track through the frigid artic air.

"Negative, the contact is flying blind." Switch sighed a little in frustration underneath his oxygen mask. Whatever God, Switch's personal nickname for Osea's AWACS birds, was tracking sounded like just another ghost. Intermittent contact signature, no IFF, and no radar whatsoever over a featureless ocean was just the kind of phantom "bogeys" that routinely sent the 188th on wild goose chases all over North Sea.

"Damn, they actually had me going there for a second, boss." Switch mumbled over the inter-plane frequency as he un-strapped his oxygen mask.

"We burned just enough fuel coming out this way to require another tanking too… still think this is better than the army, rookie?" Top Hat answered, voice hinting at the same frustration Switch was feeling. The younger pilot quickly jumped at the chance to joke around with the CO. After all, the man actually sounded like he had a personality in the air, too bad it never showed on the ground.

"Oh yes Sir, I still prefer these four fucking hour long patrols through the snow than sleeping in it. Besides, I never heard of no trooper playing with a thirty-million dollar rifle."

"Lynx, bogey should be in visual range." AWACS Overlord echoed through Switch's helmet and fifty-feet away Lynx One waved his left hand in an offering gesture. Again, Switch jumped at the opportunity,

"Don't you worry Overlord, we'll find that nice pretty ghost of yours-"

"JINX NOW!" Top Hat's voice barked through Switch's helmet.

Without thought, Switch's right hand snapped forward and his stomach instantly snuggled up to his adam's apple as angry, dark waves replaced the solid grey cloud through the view of his HUD. Directly overhead two black silhouettes ripped by from right to left in an instant, followed a second later by the low, loud rumble of turbine power plants heard clearly over the whining hum of Switch's own engines. With training giving his body the orders, Swtich's right hand now snapped back and left swinging the fighter from pitch down into a rolling nose up attitude. Near instantly moving from negative into high positive G, Switch forcefully squeezed every muscle in his body grunting with exertion as darkness began to close in around the edges of his vision. Only then he realized he wasn't able to breath.

"Overlord! Tally-ho! Two bandits heading eastbound, engaging!" Lynx One's booming voice registered faintly off in the distance of Switch's mind which was just now catching up to the rest of his body. As the view in his HUD rapidly shifted from dark blue back to grey, two bright orange dots became centered in his sight. A third orange dot burned much closer and higher up to his right side. Instantly relaxing back pressure, Lynx Two coughed and sputtered as an impossibly heavy weight lifted off his body and Switch suddenly realized he could breath again. _Fucking mask doesn't work when it's off dumbass!_ His conscious criticized as Switch's left hand fumbled to clip the mask back up to his helmet. With the darkness quickly retreating back to the edges of his vision, the two bright orange dots divided themselves into two clumps of two engine exhausts. With the blink of an eye, the four burning suns jumped to new intensity as raw kerosene was dumped into the mix.

"Negative Lynx Flight do not engage, I say again, _do not engage_- wait, contact is rapidly picking up speed-" Overlord stuttered over the radio as Lynx One cut him off,

"Confirm contact as _two_ MiG-31's! They've gone to burners! Confirm white ones one the rails! Request permission to fire!" Top Hat boomed back as Switch's brain jumped into overdrive. _White ones? Shit, real missiles?_ The young pilot thought as the two black MiG's started a shallow climb, rapidly pulling away from the pursuing navy fighters. Sparring only a second to reach up and turn his attack radar to 'active', Switch's left hand dropped right back down and slammed his throttle full forward as two lime green and one blue box blinked into existence on his HUD. After a split second delay Switch felt himself pushed roughly back into his seat as raw kerosene was dumped into the exhaust of his own two engines, igniting into a five meter long plume of fire. But to Switch's dismay and despite his own rapid acceleration, the two MiG's continued to pull further away faster and faster, still arcing skyward.

"You are over _international waters_ Lynx! You are not to fire unless fired upon! We need identification, insignias, roundels, _something_!" A different, deeper voice yelled back from Overlord, struggling to compete with the ferocity of Top Hat's voice. Finally, it was Switch's turn,

"We're not going to have time to ident! They're going for the cloud!"

"Black Foxbats with weapons on the rails, what more do you want! If they aren't hostile why are they running!" Lynx One bellowed again, ahead and above of Switch, also visibly losing the race with the MiG's.

"Lynx Two can you confirm weapon payload?" The deeper voice asked, calmer, somewhat. Squinting through the snow to the rapidly climbing bandits, Switch could just barely make out the small grey-white shapes tucked under the wings.

"Negative Overlord, they are packing, but it could be anything, although confirm no blue paint."

"Not being training munitions doesn't mean a thing, they could be cameras or more likely drop tanks in order to make it all the way out here. You are ordered to identify and send them home! _Weapons safe!_" Came the definitive order as both black fighters disappeared, punching through the cloud ceiling.

"Bandits just went IFR! We can't get a close visual now, I'm still in range to fire!" Lynx One's voice boomed through Switch's head as his CO's fighter also disappeared into the cloud.

"Pursue until they break out! _Weapons safe!_" echoed the order as the snow, sea, and horizon vanished into a grey cocoon as Lynx Two ripped into the cloud ceiling, the three empty boxes on his HUD remaining as his only orientation as to where this chase was leading him. Despite his airspeed indicator just passing through nine hundred knots, the distance to the two MiG's continued to increase rapidly.

"Pursue _how?_ Those Foxbat's will be mach three in under twenty seconds, we can't catch that! We got one shot now, we won't get another one!"

"Lynx! WEAPONS SAFE!"

"_FUCK!"_

* * *

"_FUCK!"_

Could be heard clearly through the white wooden door as Switch sat quietly outside the CAG's office, still in his flight gear as the only slightly muffled screaming continued, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING COMMANDER!" across the oak paneled room a young brunette Ensign looked up from her desktop computer,

"If it makes you feel better you're not in any actual trouble Lieutenant." She smiled faintly as Switch looked quizzically up at her.

"What do you mean?"

"He knows you were just following your flight lead. CAG just wants you here so you know what to expect if you ever disobey orders personally." She continued with a faint smile as an audible _whump_ echoed through the door causing both Switch and the Ensign to cringe.

"_You'll_ probably just get a strict reprimand. At least that's the kind of thing I usually see."

"HARPER! YOU TELL THAT KID OUT THERE IF HE EVER ASSISTS IN CHALLENGING ORDERS AGAIN HE'LL HAVE HIS ASS DROWNED FASTER THAN THE BELKAN NAVY! HE IS GROUNDED FOR THE NEXT WEEK! CLEAR!" The intercom clicked into life as if on cue and the CAG's voice boomed both through the loudspeaker and through the door, intercom clicking off again before the ensign had a chance to reply.

"Oh… grounded too, you must have done something really stupid up there…but I guess that means you're free to go." Slightly bewildered Switch leapt to his feet, wanting to use any excuse to get as far away from the CAG's office as possible.

"Oh, and Lieutenant!" The Ensign called as Switch was just getting through the outer door, "since you won't be flying for a while, how about you look me up sometime?" She continued to smile as another audible _whump_ caused Switch to hastily move out of sight down the corridor without reply.

* * *

"Well, well, well, you've been in for a rough week there haven't you flyboy?" Another young blonde haired man in olive drab flight suit laughed out loud as a showered and refreshed Switch entered the forward Officer's Mess onboard the aircraft carrier _Vulture_. 

"Can it Jester." Switch mumbled as he collapsed into a leather armchair.

"No really, you came at just the right time." Jester continued, leaning forward to look at two rather attractive Lieutenants sitting on the other side of a coffee table from him.

"I was just getting to the story of how you got that new moniker of yours." This prompted a small chuckle from the two ladies and caught the attention of three other flight suit clad men playing pool nearby.

"Hey Jester, we get to hear about Switch's brilliant night ops skill again?" One Captain asked as he walked over, adding chalk to his cue tip. Despite getting a look that could freeze fire, the pilot named Jester continued, his green eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Aw common there Jeff, it's a quality story," he smiled leaning over and patting Switch's knee as the brown haired pilot just leaned back again in defeat. Seizing the moment Jester didn't miss a beat,

"Well as you know, most of the pilots of the 188th just upgraded to active duty last week, you know, the end of our training." Lieutenant Kyle Perry beamed as a few more patrons of the O-mess walked up to the quickly growing crowd.

" Now, despite several months of training, some of us," Jester smiled and thumbed towards Switch, who was now covering his eyes with his hands, "had yet to do anything stupid or ignorant enough with which to be honoured as their new callsign."

"Yeah, not like you hey Kyle, you had Jester from what, the first day?" One of the smaller and lankier boys at the bar called across the room.

"Second day I'll have you know, and that's enough from you Butch, this is my story time." Jester fired back before continuing and making an apologetic face to the two ladies, "As I was saying were at the end of our training, on our last trial, a real-live night exercise in which me and flyboy over here are to bomb a shore-based facility."

"I'm going to need a drink." Switch grumbled, trying desperately to hide the faintest tinge to a smile of his face, as he got up and walked over to the bar, _it was after all, _he thought,_ a very interesting night._

"Yeah, yeah sure hotshot… anyways so there we are, ripping down low-level, six hundred knots,"

"It was five hundred last night Jester!"

"What did I say to you Butch?"

"You told this story last night too! How much are you spreading this?"Switch spun around from the bar.

"Easy there flyboy, besides it's good with the ladies," Jester defended with a wink, "now where… Right, so seven hundred knots, low-level, the rest of the squadron is keeping the red team busy way up above us, and we're coming close to our target, managing to slip through the spider web of SAM's and AAA without detection. So it's time to arm, right? Now I reach over and flip the master switch, and we must only be like five miles to the target by now… my weapons light up, all ready to drop, and that's when flyboy over here reaches for his master… but oh wait…" the blonde pilot pauses, extending both index figures in suspense as the mess goes quiet. After milking the desired effect, he continued,

"He misses… and instead… flips three lighting switches. Now you picture this, dead of night, no moon, three hundred feet off the deck, eight hundred knots, missile trails and dogfights going on high above us… and Switch over here lights up like a freaking Christmas tree! We're talking nav lights, ident lights, even the goddamn strobes!" Jester made blinking motions with his hands as the room burst into roars of laughter.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! It gets better! Now for about three seconds nothing happens, I mean _nothing_… I don't even think I breathed. And then in his infinite wisdom flyboy here mutters "ohhhh sh-" and as if on cue my threat warning receiver goes wild as what must be every AAA, SAM, and grunt with a rifle this side of Ustio opens up! The sky goes wild with tracer fire and dummy rockets whizzing all around like fireworks! So off we go splitting up roaring for cover, him still blinking away like its Federation Day-"

Over at the bar, Lieutenant Jeff "Switch" Kroener took swig of his beer before nodding the mass of laughing officers now looking at him, most with tears in their eyes, _this is going to be a long week_, was the only thought that came to mind…

he coudln't be more right...but off onboard the Osean CV _Vulture_ in the cold North Sea, Switch had no idea what fireworks were about to engulf the world around him...

* * *

So there you have, Chapter 1… didn't include all the scenes I wanted to, mainly since that last scene ended up being far longer than I had planned, anyways the real, solid links to AC5 plot/characters will happen next chapter, promise. Please R&R, I'm always open to criticism, it leads to improvement, but on that note, no outright flames please, thanks. 

"_keep 'em flying"_

-silverphantom


	2. Derivation

In light of my reviewing some other pieces of work in the Ace Combat category, particularly "On the Job Training" (Rei Ronin), I have decided to try and use first-person narrative for the first time in one of my fanfics. The reasoning is that it looks interesting and far easier to add the breadth and scope I am trying to accomplish. For those two that have guessed the fact, yes I am Canadian (as the CF-188 comment hinted towards).  
At any rate, on with CH.2, please enjoy.

I do not own Ace Combat 5 nor any of their trademarked characters or plots.

* * *

**Ghosts of War**

CHAPTER 2: **_"Derivation"_**

-CV Vulture, off the Osean coastline, North Sea-

The several hours immediately following the "black bandit" incident, the CAG's office, and worst yet, another "switch-story" recounting was mercifully followed by ten hours of glorious sleep.

Yeah, right.

I was probably only fifteen minutes into my bunk before a rough shake to my shoulder rudely brought me back to consciousness. My first thought was that there must have some emergency for someone to come wake me, a bare Lieutenant, personally. My second thought was to how they managed to get through the locked, _steel door_ and into my quarters to do so. This was my first close encounter with civilian intelligence-types, and regrettably, nowhere near the last. Not fully being awake, I agreed to follow him, and seeing that I had crashed still dressed, I quickly found myself in a small room onboard ship that I had never previously been, in a section of the ship normal aircrew like myself were usually not permitted. Tucked up close to the _Vulture_'s CIC, this room was extension to the Intelligence Office, manned by civilians of the Foreign Intelligence Service and Ministry of Sovereign Security. To nip a cliché, this room I was in now walked right of a crime drama, altered only ever so slightly so that one still knew he was at sea (the uncovered wiring and pipes running above my head gave that away). To my left sat Commander Irving, _Vulture_'s Chief Intelligence Officer, recognizable from one of the first briefings I was forced to sit through when I arrived onboard a month ago. Across from me however, was a new face, dressed in navy work dress but without rank or ribbons.

_Spook_.

Irving spoke first.

"Lieutenant, I just want to assure you that this is all perfectly normal procedure following any incident. We just want your account of yesterday's engagement, as you remember it, and in full detail. We aren't going to make any accusations here, and everything you say is protected." He calmly stated in what was obviously a very prepared and well-used speech. I did not have the opportunity to ask any questions before the grilling began.

"Lieutenant, following the last transmission from the E-2C _Overlord,_ just prior your first encounter with the unknown aircraft, what was your reply and actions?" The spook asked roughly enough to get me immediately on the defensive. I did what any self-respecting fighter pilot would do under the circumstances,

I dove into CYA (cover your ass) protocol.

"Well, uh, he stated that we should be in visual range of the contact, and I replied that uh, Lynx flight was actively looking for the uh, contact."

Mistake number one.

Before I was even finished, the spook had produced a portable tape recorder from beneath the table. For the same damage he did, the spook might as well have come across the table and given me a swift knee to the groin. Four seconds of my own sarcastic voice, blended together with the beautiful humming background of F-18 power plants was enough to get his point across before he said anything.

"Mr. Kroener, you pilots are all the same, but for the next five minutes shit-can the ego and answer my questions _accurately_. I trust we're clear?" A curt flick of the head was all that was required for the session to continue.

"Now, what kind of aircraft did you intercept?"

* * *

I left the interrogation a little over an hour later heavily covered in sweat and feeling more than slightly violated. As fate would have it, that feeling and bodily function was to became the trademark of most of my further encounters with civilian "Intelligence". In a long fifty minutes, I had told, word for word the events of the previous day. In the last twenty, I had been firmly "convinced" that my flight lead and I had flown right into the center of a thunder cell, and a close burst of ball lightning, which could easily be mistaken for as engine exhaust, had caused a malfunction in my lead, Top Hat's, weapons suite.

The only thing that could have made the story smell more of crap was if they had found a way to include a UFO in the mix.

Despite how disgruntled I was over the interrogation however, it was precisely the amount of attention that Top Hat's and my little "accident", was receiving that really got my head turning around the situation as I took my second shower in as little as four hours.

By the end of that shower I needed someone to talk to, someone who would take me seriously, even if I could rarely accept him the same way.

"No, I never gave thought to where they came from. And you shouldn't be talking to me about this! I don't want to get involved with these spooks you're telling me about. Hell! I didn't even know we had any onboard, what good is joining the navy if you still can't get away from creeps like those?" Jester grumbled pointing at me from the lounge chair in his quarters. By this point I had nearly worked myself up into fervor.

"No, of course you haven't, and it seems like nobody else has either. Tell me," I argued back, standing up, "what the hell is out there?"

"Water, evidently. I mean this _is_ a carrier after all."

I should have really expected that kind of nonsense, but it still took me three seconds to pick up my jaw.

"No smart ass, beyond that?"

"Anea?" He asked, starting to see where I was going, at least that's what I hoped.

"Wrong vector, these guys came from a more southerly angle."

"Yuktobania?"

"Bingo. MiG's from the southwest." I stated, proud in my brain's accomplishments, only to have the flak open up.

"Doesn't mean anything. That's still Northern Yuktobania, merc' country, and MiG-31's have been on the market for a long time now." Jester fired back, more serious than usual, which by and large was rare, for as easy as it was to accomplish.

But I had already thought this one through.

True, mercenary outfits had been prominent in numbers since the Belkan war fifteen years ago, and even in a time of relative peace, many had still managed to maintain strength, but there was one fatal hole in Jester's argument.

"Those foxbats went to burners when they nearly smoked me Jester, they must have had fuel up the ying-yang. How many merc' outfits out there have tankers?" Again I concluded decisively. Granted, he probably did it subconsciously, but Jester's brain obviously figured the flak wasn't enough and tossed a SAM back at me.

"We're not snuggled up close to Osea Switch, we're in the middle of the North Ceres Sea. Now what if all those things you saw hanging off the MiG's rails were drop tanks? That easily puts them in range of us and back, plus fuel to spare." Jester stated coldly as I just stood there brain working overtime but fresh out of chaff.

"Well…" I stumbled, my competitiveness trying to fire back before the brain had loaded any ammunition, "…what were they doing out this way then?" It was a terribly weak response and we both knew it. Jester leaned back into his chair and smiled, he had just landed one up my tailpipe.

"I don't know, maybe testing out their birds, maybe someone is paying them to see what's out in the North Sea, they're merc's who knows?" Was the slightly mumbled reply, Jester didn't care how weak it was, he had beaten me fair and square. But I was still in afterburner. Fine, they were merc's, but I wasn't bugging out just yet.

"That would be one of hell of an expensive test flight, so suppose it was recon, they had to have some way of knowing our general vicinity, I mean you don't send MiG-31's with their radar _off_ to search an area of ocean unless you know what you're looking for, right?" This got Jester interested again, if only slightly irritated.

"So what, satellite?" He asked, coming to the same conclusion I had reached.

Ten minutes of perusing through Defense-Net, the far more resource rich version of the internet, and we had been able to pull up the schedules of all satellites passing over the North Ceres Sea for the past three days. Two stuck out. I blurted out my thoughts first, 

"Bingo, a Yuktobanian rock flew by two days ago!"

"Didn't we agree they weren't yukes? Besides that was several hundred miles off, now way an image sat would be able to see us from that range, but here, look, one civvie image sat registered to Grunder Industries flew nearby yesterday. You can buy the images they shoot off the internet for pretty cheap."

Based on the fact both were image sats, we now had definitive proof that the planes I had encountered were mercenaries on a recon mission.

But they both weren't image satellites.

Had we bothered to do a bit of research instead of just patting each other on the back for having "figured out" the puzzle, we probably could have learned that the Yuktobanian bird, launched during the Belkan War, was actually a radar equipped search satellite specifically designed to find fleets at sea.

That, and that the next pass of that satellite would float nearly right over our heads within the next half hour.

* * *

I returned to my room an hour later to find another yellow post-it note on my door. At first thinking it was another jab, I nearly ripped it down, but the note was covered with pink ink. _Nobody_ I knew would write with pink.

_Hey there flyboy, hear I missed you in the mess last night. Too bad, heard some pretty good stories. I have a break at 1015, see you in the aft mess hall for brunch  
__-Harper_

Let's be honest, finding attractive girl in the Navy isn't exactly as easy as it is in one of Oured's nightclubs. Finding an attractive girl who's interested in _you _despite the infinite swarm of other fighter pilots hovering around a carrier's decks was also no easy find. And finally, finding an attractive girl who is interested in you to the point that _she_ arranges the date is abut as likely as doing a barrel roll in the _Wright Flyer_.

Is it even possible?

My watch said 1009 in blinking black characters. Needless to say, I didn't bother to stick around and figure out the _Flyer _problem.

Note clenched in my right fingers, I took off for the aft mess, seven hundred feet back and three decks down. On my left hand my cheap quartz watched ticked away, racing me to get to 1015 first.

The general quarters alarm beat us both.

* * *

So, what do you think of the style change?

In planning, this was only supposed to be the first half of CH.2, but as I broke through page three of the draft I figured I should make it it's own separate entity.

Anyways please R&R and I will try and throw CH.3 up asap.

-silverphantom


	3. Shock & Awe

By the way, see Switch, Jester and the rest of the 188th TFS(N) arrive on the _Vulture_, and undergo their final training work-ups at  
The clip ends with Switch taking off on his "infamous" night exercise. (Not actually obviously, but I saw the clip and it matched the story too well not to show to all of you)

I do not own Ace Combat 5 nor any of their trademarked characters or plots.

Without further adeau, I present...

**

* * *

**

Ghost of War

CHAPTER 3: _**"Shock & Awe"**_

-CV _Vulture_, off the Osean coastline, East Ceres Sea-

Two minutes is a long time in the military world, more specifically, the world of the fighter pilot. Two minutes can mean the difference between bombs on target, or bombs on the kid's preschool thirty miles down the road. Two minutes can mean making a safe trap onboard a nice dry, solid carrier with fuel to spare, or having to take a cold bath in the North Ceres Sea. Essentially, an error of two minutes in the military world is often the difference between life and death.

That's why men around the world greatly appreciate the fact that "dating", is firmly considered part of the civilian world.

My watch blinked back 1017 at me, but I had still taken the time to pause outside the door to the Aft Mess, just so I could catch my breath and look over myself one more time. My brief experiences with women while back at port had taught me that women will accommodate lack of punctuality as long as you look good, and make the inconvenience up to them sometime shortly thereafter. While Ensign Harper was to be my first experience with a fellow Navy officer, but I made the assumption that at their core, all women have the same ideals. Only after I was sure I looked presentable and was no longer panting for breath did I reach to open the door to the mess.

"General quarters air wing! General quarters air wing! All flight personnel to ready rooms! General quarters air wing!" The ship's P1C loudspeakers blared out, followed by three sharp klaxon blasts.

I just stood there and stared at the speaker with my jaw touching the floor, and I particularly remember going through three distinct thoughts,

_What the…? _

_Why would…?_

_Where's my pistol?_

Hey, I said they were distinct, not that they were particularly complicated or for that matter, intelligent.

To the best of my recollection, that was the first time in my young navy career that I had ever paused and considered disobeying an order. Now had the speaker then and there said we were at war, then I am certain there would have been no two ways about it, I would running my flight suited butt five hundred meters and one deck up the direction I just came, straight to the 188th's ready room. But the P1C hadn't included that crucial bit of information, and that, combined with the fact that I was still "grounded", and hence not on flight status meant that I seriously contemplated disobeying the General Quarters alarm, and at the very least saying a quick hello to the attractive Ensign on the other side of the door.

My dilemma of "to enter the mess or not" was decided however, when the light upstairs finally switched on and I realized that there had been no "_this is a drill_" statement following the alarm. Only after that point did I finally realize, still standing awkwardly in front of the aft officers mess, that I had heard my first ever _genuine_ General Quarters alarm.

Disgracefully, I was _still_ standing outside the mess when I heard my second.

To recover some prestige however, I was already thirty feet down the corridor before the alarm ended, during which time I clearly remember thinking, _she's in the service too, she'll understand, and who knows, with the alarm she might not even remember that you weren't on time!_

Over next few of the _Vulture_'s numbered days, I would never find out if she had noticed or not.

* * *

The 188th's ready room was already occupied by thirteen other pilots when I stormed in, roughly three-quarters of the 188th's roster. As per usual for a briefing, the lights were dimmed over the pilots and bright at front where, again as usual, the CO stood at a plain wooden podium watching his squadron stream in and take their assigned padded steel seats one by one.

The silence however, was anything but usual.

There are very few reasons to assemble an entire squadron. Even during the largest exercises, rarely more than two flights of four are in use at any one point to allow for regular maintenance on the squadron's aircraft and more importantly, to leave half a squadron rested and ready in case of unforeseen circumstances. But even when only eight pilots are assembled, there is always a constant stream of chatter and conversation before a briefing. With all seventeen pilots assembled (eighteen minus the CO), there is no way in hell the quietly whirring fans in the air ducts should have been heard. Everyone in the room knew this alarm was out of the ordinary, everyone wanted to know what was going on.

We didn't wait long.

"Allright ladies, shut up and listen up." The CO stated quite unnecessarily as the seventeenth flight suit hurried into the room. His boots were still unlaced.

"As I'm sure you all picked up, this alarm is no drill, I am not quite sure of what the situation is personally, but I have been told that the CAG himself will be briefing the entire Air Wing from the CIC." The CO stated coolly as the whiteboard to his right lit up with the projected image of the CAG, the eerily blue interior of the _Vulture_'s CIC visible behind him.

"Gentlemen, shut up and listen up!" The CAG's voiced boomed over the ready room's small speakers as everyone, myself included, straightened up out of reflex, the fact we all knew he couldn't see us quite irrelevant.

"As of thirty minutes ago the nation of Yuktobania issued a declaration of war against the Osean Federation. Now pick up your jaws and listen, this is the important part. We've received FLASH traffic from Western Naval HQ in Port St. Hewitt. They are currently under attack by a large number of tactical fighter-bombers with heavy fighter escort. The carrier _Kestrel _and her entire battlegroup are moored there, and currently racing to get to sea. Command is scrambling orders, but the only re-enforcements that will arrive in time for the melee are a flight of Tomcats of the 137th, and elements from Sand Island Air Base," he paused, "a training unit."

"Very simply, this opening, surprise offensive appears to be targeting our only current offensive weapons, the CVN's. With the _Barbet_ in Oured's drydock and out of the picture that leaves the _Kestrel_, the_ Buzzard_, and us. The _Kestrel_ is already under attack so the Admiralty believes that Port St. Halworth, the _Buzzard_ and our home port, will also come under attack. Latest intelligence puts the Yuktobanian Carrier battle group still at port, meaning they may believe we're holed up in port with the _Buzzard_ and therefore not expecting or looking for a naval engagement. In the meantime, Fleet HQ has given orders to sail, but the _Buzzard _battlegroup won't be going anywhere at least six hours.

Fate has given our ship a major defensive advantage, but we must protect the rest of the fleet, those ships are invaluable gentlemen." The CAG's voice boomed in a fast, powerful pace. Once again, everyone stiffened as they knew what was coming next; orders. Overhead a rapid, low rumble echoed through the ready room as one of the _Vulture_'s four steam catapults viciously released its pent-up power.

"To that end we've quickly devised a battle plan. This is for the 120th," The CAG continued as a digital chart of the Western Osean coastline replaced his face on the whiteboard.

"I want all of your Tommie's in the air immediately; you're off to Port St. Hewitt. You won't arrive in time for the battle, but the Ceres is too wide for those tactical aircraft, they'll have to tank somewhere on the way home. Arming crews should be loading up Phoenix's on your rails now. Get your asses out there and mop up anything that escapes the melee over the _Kestrel_. Bombers, fighters, and _especially_ any tankers they have out there, splash them all. You will be too far away to return here, so you'll be landing at Nillius Air Base, refueling, and returning to the _Vulture_ from there. We are launching both of our Hawkeye's now to assist in your hunting." The CAG ordered, referring to the F-14's unique arsenal, the AIM-54 Phoenix missile. Despite a horrendously expensive price tag per unit, when the missile and fighter combine, they become long range, high speed platform capable of tracking, engaging and neutralizing a target at over a hundred miles away. The CAG had ordered the ship's F-14 squadron on their dream role; long-range extermination. Overhead, a second low rumble meant the second slow, prop-driven Hawkeye naval-AWACS and been hurled into the air.

Ahead on the whiteboard, the screen flickered and became a new chart, centered on Port St. Halworth, which was closer, but still dangerously far from the _Vulture_ icon on the screen.

"This is for the 188th and the 196th. As soon as the 120th is airborne you will be launched in order that your craft are ready. Proceed immediately to the airspace above our home port and take up a combat air patrol. You will be in range of shore based fire control so you won't need any Hawkeye's. There _will_ be a strike package inbound, jump them, neutralize them, and escort the _Buzzard_ to sea. As soon as the last aircraft launches, the _Vulture_ will turn out of wind and head full steam towards your position, you should be able to recover here by the time your engines are running on fumes. That's all gentlemen, consider this a scramble order, I want all aircraft airborne in fifteen. Hunt the bastards down. CAG out."

I instantly joined the rest of my squadron as we left our seats to grab our G-suits and helmets hanging on the back walls. There was an obvious sense of urgency but everyone was carefully taking the time to put their suits on properly, especially since we knew we would be putting them to use. Muffled noises could be heard outside the ready room as pilots from the two other squadrons raced down the hall at breakneck speed, the 196th boys to the hangar bay, and the Tomcatter's to the flight deck. Securing my G-suit was the easy part, the dash through the _Vulture's_ halls turned out to be nothing more than a headlong sprint that probably had me on equal chances to end up the infirmary before I even got airborne.

Although at the time, everyone, including the Captain and CAG, thought the war was unfolding several hundred miles away, the _Vulture_ was in a truly precarious and awkward position. Osea was at peace, which meant her incredibly expensive navy was kept at port as much as possible. The construction of the four carriers in Osea's arsenal was a direct result of the Belkan conflict, but the expenses of running and maintaining the carriers (which included each carrier's Air Wing of seventy plus aircraft and battle group of seven support ships per flattop) was a massive black hole to the Osean economy. With the outbreak of peace, Osea could no longer afford her massive wartime-born arsenal of air, land, and sea forces and cutbacks were inevitable. The first to suffer was the Army, whose size dwindled to a mere four divisions, only one of which was armoured. But this alone was not enough. The Air Force saw the chopping block next, her massive numbers of standing, regular force squadrons being replaced with reserve units or being disbanded altogether.

The premise for this action was that maintaining four carrier Air Wings was enough to supplement the need for a standing Air Force. And so the Air Force was decimated, its strength relying on part time pilots who were ready to be called up, and massive fleets of hundreds of aircraft sitting idly on the ground and in the open in three great open "boneyards" ready to be used in an emergency, but _only_ in an emergency.

Despite these drastic measures, the Navy was to suffer her share of cutbacks as well. Budget restraints meant that battlegroups rarely ever steamed at sea in full fleets, and the only time a carrier herself was allowed to sail was if new pilots or old needed to qualify or re-qualify for carrier operations. This was exactly the reason why the _Vulture_ was at sea now, the training of the 188th and re-qualifications of the 196th and the 120th. She did not carry a whole Air Wing, only these three squadrons requiring workups, two E-2C Hawkeye naval AWACS, and two COD versions of the E-2 for aerial re-supply and crew transport. She was missing an electronic warfare squadron, a third Hornet squadron, her anti-submarine Vikings and Seahawks and a full complement of naval AWACS. Likewise her battlegroup was nearly nonexistent, comprised of only two destroyers. The destroyers themselves were only allowed to sail as to give the Hornet squadrons realistic anti-shipping targets to simulate runs on, as well as to give the destroyer crews practice in their anti-aircraft duties. In perfect truth of the matter, the _Vulture_ battlegroup in her current state could just barely be considered combat-capable. That being said, at the outbreak of war, we were the only active fighter squadrons on the west coast of Osea, with the exception of the reserve wing at Sand Island Air Base, the training center at Hierlark, and a squadron of Tomcats led by the famous Capt. Snow, which was practicing basic flight procedures before they replaced the 188th for a naval warfare and flight operations training berth onboard the _Vulture_.

With the _Barbet_ at port in Oured, the _Kestrel_ fighting for her life at port St. Hewitt, and _Buzzard_ turning over her boilers, the Captain and CAG of the _Vulture_ were going to rely on the vastness of the ocean to keep her from being hunted and engaged as well.

It was a bold move, and almost failed.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

* * *

I can clearly recall the first sensations that hit me when I finally reached the hangar. That is because the sickening stench of hydraulic fluid, oil, Jet-A, and most worrisome of all, the roar of hundreds of voices yelling at each other basically summed up the near anarchy that was breaking out in the bay. The cavernous flight bay was a mess of chaotic, frantic activity. What should have been a massive empty space only half filled with aircraft was completely congested sea of brown and blue vested sailors of the _Vulture _Air Wing. Around each aircraft brown shirted maintenance crews hurriedly made last minute adjustments to the aircraft in their charge and set about firing up the electronics prior to the pilot's arrival. Zipping in and around the aircraft, blue clothed personnel moved in packs, with a collection of specialized vehicles looking to hook up any aircraft they could find and start moving to one of the _Vulture_'s four large shipside elevators. I nearly got my head taken off by the wing mounted weapons rack of a Hornet as I struggled to move through the surging river of personnel to get to my bird. The only thought at the time going through my mind was how long I was going to have to wait just to get onto an elevator, never mind launched at the rate the "scramble" seemed to be progressing.

Now reading this, I am sure you are probably astounded at how fast the _Vulture's_ specialized Navy crew could break down into outer chaos despite flight operations being the exact and near only job of everyone in that hangar. To explain the source of the chaos simply, you need to understand that the order to "scramble" does not exist in carrier aviation.

At an Air Force Base, you say scramble and off the crews go to work, the first aircraft ready simply taxies out to the runway and off he goes.

On a carrier, you have to deal with the fact there are no taxiways, only a handful of designated arming points, a _separate_ handful of fueling points, and only four bottleneck elevators to get your aircraft up topside. Once topside the fun doesn't stop and aircraft need to be guided across the steel deck, keeping the landing portion as clear as possible, while being queued up for a catapult slot. Granted, in a wartime situation there are always six fighter aircraft sitting up on the flight deck, fueled, armed, crewed and ready to be launched within five minutes of the order, but whenever any other sizeable force is to be used, even in wartime, it requires eons of careful planning and orchestration to get those aircraft fueled, armed, moved through an often jam packed Hangar, lifted to the Flight Deck, and moved efficiently to the catapults. Without that planning and orchestration you have the near free-for-all I was experiencing first hand as the Blue's just grabbed the closest aircraft to the elevators and sent it on up, whether the Brown shirts say it's ready or not, neither groups caring if there was actually a pilot at that aircraft yet. The pilots just entering into the fray have to frantically search for their aircraft, do their pre-flight, walk-around, strap in and be ready to start up immediately upon reaching the Flight Deck, a place where space is even at a higher premium.

Now, thankfully _I_ did not have the problem that many of my squadron mates were experiencing as _my_ Hornet was _not_ being shoved around by the blue shirts as they argued about which order it should be fueled, armed and sent topside. In fact, _my_ problem was that everyone seemed to be ignoring _my _Hornet completely.

"Chief Laskar!" I screamed upon reaching what must have been the only unattended bird in the colossus hangar.

"Aye!" came the reply from a brown shirted maintenance chief firing up the electronic suite on a Hornet thirty feet from mine.

"Why the hell isn't my plane ready! Have I got fuel? Because I can sure as hell see I've got no weapons!" I bellowed, competing over the roaring din of the hangar.

"I'm sorry Sir! But I was still under the impression you're off active duty, I can't get that bird prepped without the CAG's approval." The only thing that stopped me from hurling my quite solid helmet at the Chief's head was the fact that I was still going to need it in one piece. Instead I reached under and up into the nose gear bay and hit the button for the canopy release, waited for it to open sufficiently, and tossed my helmet and mask up into the cockpit before running back across the chaotic ocean that was the _Vulture_'s hangar bay.

"Just get that bloody plane armed, fueled, and topside ASAP, I'll get that approval!" In hindsight, it was quite the day for me, fitness wise. Considering all the running back and forth first to the mess, then to the ready room, down several stories to the hangar, followed by my dash now to find the CAG, who would naturally be in the _Vulture_'s CIC, the nerve center of the carrier, which happened to be located several more stories back _above_ the bay, I'm surprised I wasn't dead by that point.

As I continued my half mile sprint through the narrow steel passageways I could hear the now almost continuous rumbling as the _Vulture's_ four catapults were throwing up Osea's only frontline defense in this surprise war.

My only thought at the time was how pissed off I was that at this rate, Jester was going to get first crack at the Yuke bastards before I could.

* * *

My deep apologies for taking to so long to add another chapter, most regrettably life intervened, but I am back and so the story will continue   
Once again this was supposed to be half of a greater whole, but as I'm finding is consistently occurring, a chapter in my outline (which is currently laid out till two more chapters ahead) is turning into at least two in real writing… anyways off I go to work on the next installment, so enjoy this one, and please R&R.

Cheers,


End file.
